


The Mercy of Achilles

by MrsMollyH



Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Anger, Bloodplay, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Achilles takes out his rage for Hector on Paris--a fair trade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mercy of Achilles

Achilles lay on the mat of his hut, considering all that he had been through in the last pair of days.

First had been Patroclus—slit open by the crowned Trojan prince, Hector. There had been true regret in his eyes when the incident was explained, but the deed had been done. No man short of a god could bring Patroclus from beyond the river Styx.

The day following he had faced Hector. The man was an accomplished fighter—this was true—but no man was a match for the great Achilles. After taking what was rightfully his, Achilles had dragged the prince’s body back to his hut.

The king had been in such despair that he had actually emerged from behind his precious walls simply to beg for the return of the body of his beloved elder son. This one request was granted only because of Achilles’ overwhelming pity for the man. He had even been so kind as to return Briseis.

It would be twelve days from tonight before any fighting would begin. The great warrior had nearly a fortnight to consider this war.

The younger prince, Paris, crossed his mind. It was his fault that any and all of this had occurred. Had he not stolen Menalaus’ Helen, Patroclus would be living. The prince had not been formed by the gods for war. Paris was designed for seduction and being seduced.

Paris would be dealt with accordingly; Achilles swore to it.

That night’s sleep was restless; the warrior was haunted by dreams of the young Trojan.

He awoke many hours before Dawn would show her rosy visage, half a dozen at least.

“Something must be done,” the bronzed warrior decided, rising from the animal skins he was lying amongst. Wrapping his hips in a leather kilt, Achilles called to one of his younger men.

He looked at the boy and said, “bring me Paris at any cost.” The young man nodded, confusion apparent in his light eyes, but he didn’t dare question the order.

Turning quickly, the young soldier went about his task, making his way up the dune that protected the Grecian camp.

Achilles returned to his hut, his blue eyes clouded in thought as he paced the floor. This child had cost him too much. His lover and cousin was dead. Achilles’ jaw clenched at the memory. This error must be rectified. 

Running a hand through his sun-paled hair, he wondered how much time could have passed while he had tread a path on the floor of his room. Three-quarters of an hour at least. He crossed the ground a dozen more times before the knock rang at his door.

“You may enter,” he called. The young man had accomplished his task; he and Paris stood in the doorway.

Achilles lauded him for his success and then sent the boy away.

Paris’ eyes were hardened with a mixture of anger and devastation.

“To what great honor do I owe such an invitation?” the prince hissed.

"You are upset, dear prince; such a feeling is expected,” Achilles began, “You loved your brother as much as you believe you love Helen.”

“Helen and I will always be together, whether—”

“You are allowed such fantasies in your youth,” Achilles interrupted, “You were meant to love, never to fight. Your brother was the warrior, the man who could be king.” 

The final comment stung Paris visibly; his eyes glowed with rage. “You will be forced to clean up after Cerberus in the underworld; you will rot for all eternity at the behest of Hades; you’re the conniving son of a whore to a powerless slave,” he growled. In an instant and in one fluid motion, Achilles had grasped his sabre and had placed it to the prince’s throat, successfully backing him into the wall of his hut.

“You are a fool to utter these words, dear prince,” Achilles hissed, drawing the blade across the younger man’s neck. A crimson thread bubbled from beneath the sun and sex darkened skin. “Do you think yourself better than me, Trojan?” he said roughly at the prince’s throat. His tongue lashed out, stealing a few drops of blood from the wound he had given Paris. “Your blood tastes sweet, prince; it tastes youthful and foolhardy—much different from your brother’s.”

Paris bucked at the comment, bringing his face inches within the other man’s.

“You have no right to speak of him!” Paris clipped. His breathing was hard and a potent mixture of anger and fear—surely adrenaline—kept him at full energy. Achilles could feel the prince shaking with rage; the boy’s eyes were lined in liquid fire.

Paris bucked again, straining for freedom, and his hips met Achilles’, finding the man aroused at the motion.

Quick disbelief flitted across his mind—surely he must be mistaken—but there was no mistake when Achilles took to his neck, kissing, biting and sucking hard enough to contuse and draw more blood from the wound dribbling at his larynx.

“You truly are a fool,” Achilles said through rough nips, “For thinking of me with such lowly contempt.” He bit at the edge of the wound and Paris gasped harshly, his face clenched in pain.

“Ah Paris, this surely isn’t the least of what you will experience tonight,” Achilles assured him upon pulling away from the Trojan’s throat, “You will learn, as your brother did, what it is like to be at my mercy, the mercy of Great Achilles.” 

Wildly surveying the hut, Paris felt a whimper rise in him. He quashed it with the memory of Achilles dragging his beloved Hector’s body back to this very plot of sand.

Paris saw no way of escape. Before panic had had a chance to bloom, he felt the warrior in front of him slip his fingers under the batik fabric and swiftly tear it from his shoulders and chest, leaving his upper body exposed.

Achilles pressed his blade harder into the prince’s sinewy neck, “You will not shout for help, or I will slit this young throat.” A fire still gleamed in Paris’ dark eyes, but he nodded his understanding. Lowering the sword slowly, Achilles grasped a handful of Paris’ curls with his left hand and tugged the younger man forward, evincing a grunt with the quick yank. Achilles pressed his lips hard to the prince’s. Licking at a taut mouth, the warrior finally nipped a lip, causing Paris to open his mouth in pain—only to receive Achilles’ tongue.

Achilles’ kisses were much like his fighting—fast, sly and deadly. As the kiss deepened, Paris felt his knees threaten to buckle, his muscles beg for release. A low groan whispered from Paris’ lips upon a second of a break in the kiss. The Grecian allowed the boy to recline in the skins below him. Achilles let his fingers dig into the skin at Paris’ pelvis. “Tonight, dear Paris, you will experience pleasure and the art of domination unlike ever before,” Achilles told the reclining man beneath him; he had straddled those narrow hips and the two cocks were fighting through the clothing for contact. Achilles, his knees to each side of the prince’s waist, rolled his pelvis, grinding the two covered shafts together. The blade remained in his hand, and he lifted the sabre and made a slim cut in Paris’ shoulder. The Trojan hissed in pain and near-pleasure.

“I will make you beg,” Achilles grunted, “You will beg me for release in the name of every god.” Again he ground his cock into Paris’. A low, throated groan slid from the prince. Running a battle-callused hand over the outside of Paris’ thigh, Achilles studied each reaction he was awarded. The younger man’s length was taught with lust and apprehension. The warrior allowed his hand to drift inward, under the batiked cloth and to the hard shaft concealed there. With a grunt, Paris bucked his hips toward the hand torturing him; for the motion, he received a slit to the obliques.

“Don’t move, prince,” Achilles hissed, running his index finger along the freshly bubbling cut he had just created. Paris inhaled sharply at the touch—the salt of the Grecian’s skin stung like a freshly awarded welt. His arousal paid no attention to the pain; his cock twitched as Achilles licked his blood from a scarred finger. Paris allowed a low moan to escape his lips, and was given a scalding gaze by the warrior above him. The prince pursed his lips shut, and Achilles, swallowing the crimson liquid, nodded slightly, an assent to the motion.

All logic told Paris to strike at the face and body above him, to kill, to destroy, but he didn’t move. His arms lay at his sides; his fingers curled into his palm as blood flowed to his cock, flattening it against his stomach.

Achilles eyes were now engulfed in some dangerous flame. His tongue wet his lips, sliding across each soft curve. Paris knew his arousal twitched obviously at the action. Without warning other than the intensity of his gaze, Achilles dipped his mouth to the tip of the Trojan prince’s length, engulfing it in heat. Paris’ jaw fell open; he fought the urge to shout.

Achilles licked hard at the head of the Trojan’s cock, twisting his mouth around the seam between the tip and shaft. Dipping his mouth into the mound of curls at the juncture of Paris’ thighs, the warrior took all of the boy’s length into his mouth. Swallowing, Achilles felt Paris arch into the feeling, thrusting into his throat. A whimper escaped Paris’ soft lips, and Achilles dug his fingernails into the thin hips below him, just hard enough to cut the skin without scarring.

Now shuddering, Paris bit his lip to keep himself silent; what this man was doing to him had never been rivaled by a female form. Achilles’ throat was so hot, so tight, and the suction he could create had Paris’ head spinning. With a flick, Achilles brought Paris so close to completion that the young prince clutched at the furs beneath him; Achilles denied him release, pressing on the base of the length in his mouth. Releasing the younger man’s erection, Achilles reveled in each squirm the prince gave him, admired the silvery thread of amylase that connected him to his conquest.

“Paris, you will please me before I allow you any pleasure; do you understand?” The prince nodded, his eyes wide. Achilles stood and removed the kilt from low on his hips, exposing his own arousal. “Remain on your knees and do your best, it is common knowledge that you are well practiced.” 

His hands clenched, Paris felt a growl in his throat but he let it fade and then crawled to the form above him, taking the warrior’s length into his mouth.

With a lick along the base of Achilles’ cock, Paris gathered the taste of it, the smell, the sight, the feeling. It was sweet and musky, all tense muscle and barely-there twitches. Achilles placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh there; half-moon cuts would mark the Trojan when the night was through.

As Paris’ tongue caressed Achilles’ length, the Grecian began to thrust his hips toward the hot mouth that was encompassing him. That young throat was hot and tight and Achilles could feel tension building from between his legs. Flicking the seam between head and shaft, Paris evinced a strained growl from Achilles.

The Grecian’s fingers had migrated to the dark curls that graced the prince’s head and were guiding the boy’s mouth. As the heat grew, Achilles pulled his cock out of Paris’ mouth and thrust him against the furs below him.

There was blood dripping down the Trojan’s side and down the back of his neck, surely staining him and the fur he lay on. The cuts were opening now, and Achilles pressed his fingertips to the one on his throat, lighting it with pain.

“Do not shout,” Achilles hissed, pulling the younger man’s legs over his shoulders. With a swift stroke, he pushed inside of Paris, the sole lubrication that of the boy’s previous ministrations. As the head of the pale-haired man’s shaft passed the tight ring of muscle, the Trojan ground his jaw to distract from the sting of the pain. The pressure was almost too much for the young man to bear until a shudder of pleasure tore up his flexible spine as Achilles’ cock pressed something incredibly sensitive.

Paris meant to move his mouth to say “more” but it disobeyed, and a salacious moan crossed his lips instead. Finally, having pushed into Paris entirely, Achilles began to move. With each thrust, the warrior pushed harder, picked up speed. With a roll of his hips, the blue-eyed man allowed his lips to fall to the younger man’s shoulder, where he bit hard and Paris gave a growl of pleasure.

Grasping the younger man’s cock, Achilles twisted and pumped with each of his hard thrusts, working the glistening moisture over the length of the boy’s arousal. The warrior planted a stinging kiss at the Trojan’s throat and continued thrusting.

With each twist and push, the tension rose. Hard breaths were all that separated the men’s naked flesh.

Achilles was fucking Paris, there was no love to this; but as the shake of orgasm washed over them both, they grabbed at each other as though they could never be without the other. As Achilles’ spilt his seed in Paris, the prince came hard on his own stomach, and the two collapsed in the furs.

The Grecian brought his eyes to the Trojan’s. “You’ve paid for your crime.” Pushing off the boy he picked up his sabre and put it to the boy’s throat. Letting the blade slide down golden flesh, Achilles applied enough pressure to sever the skin just over the Trojan’s sternum and then let the sword drop. Turning to the curtained exit, the bronzed warrior gestured that the prince was to leave.

As Paris collected the blue cloth of his sarong, he whispered, “This is not the last of me you have seen, Achilles,” and took his first step into the pre-Dawn dark.


End file.
